The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(21)

‘In the water, you say. She drowned?’

‘No, sir. She was put there after she died.’

Suddenly MacDougal was on his feet, and he didn’t look so small now. His face was bright red with anger, veins straining through skin, eyes wide. He was too close. McLean could feel the gangster’s breath on his own face, but he stood his ground. There were two ways this could go, and one of them wasn’t at all appealing.

‘What’re you saying, inspector? She was murdered?’

McLean was about to answer when a screeching wail rose up from the floor. He looked down to see Jenny MacDougal sprawled out on the carpet, clutching the discarded photographs, screaming incoherently. He bent down to help her, but Razors pushed him roughly aside, stooped, picked up his wife.

‘Get her out of here,’ he said to one of the bodyguards. Jenny fought and kicked as she was hauled bodily from the room, but it was a weak effort, worn down by two years of worry.

‘Jesus, but you’ve got a nerve.’ MacDougal paced back and forth, flexing his over-large hands into fists. ‘What the f*ck do you think you’re doing, bringing this in here?’ He swept an arm in the direction of the crumpled photographs.

‘I take it that is your daughter, Mr MacDougal?’

‘Aye, it’s her.’ For the first time he looked like he might actually be grieving, a rime of tears forming in his eyes. He sniffed hard, wiping his face with a sleeve. ‘So what happened? And why’s it taken this long for youse lot to come and tell us?’

‘When we found her she was naked, no personal effects. Missing Persons didn’t come up with a match. I’m sorry about that, they really should have done. It wasn’t until we put an e-fit out that a name came up. She was calling herself Audrey Carpenter.’

McLean could see that MacDougal wasn’t really listening. He’d gone to the sideboard, poured himself a large scotch from a hideous crystal decanter. Why did villains always decant their whisky? Probably because it was cheap and they wanted to pretend it wasn’t.

‘Audrey was living in a squat somewhere in Edinburgh,’ McLean continued. ‘She’d been talking to a reporter at the Scotsman, mostly about life on the streets, I think.’

MacDougal might have been a thug, but he wasn’t stupid. Two quick steps brought him face to face with McLean, staring at him with those wild eyes.

‘Who? This reporter. I want his name.’

‘You know I can’t tell you that, sir. I can pass on your request for a meeting though.’

‘Don’t give me that shit, inspector. The name.’ MacDougal prodded McLean in the chest with a stubby finger. The whisky in his other hand sloshed around in its glass, giving off an unmistakable Islay peat aroma. So much for that theory.

‘When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr MacDougal?’

For a moment, the words just hung in the air, echoing in the silence as the colour in MacDougal’s face darkened. Then he pointed at the door and growled like an angry bear.

‘Get out!’

McLean held the gangster’s gaze for a couple of seconds more, then nodded his head. ‘Constable,’ he said without turning. MacBride scurried out of the room like a frightened mouse.

‘We’ll speak again, Mr MacDougal,’ McLean said, and then he walked slowly to the door.

‘You’ll be wanting to keep your head down, sir. Old Dagwood’s looking for you and I don’t think it’s to give you a medal.’ The duty sergeant smiled from behind his glass barrier as he buzzed McLean back into the station.

‘What have I done this time, Pete?’

‘No idea, but he’s been tearing a strip off anyone who gets in his way. Right foul mood he’s in.’

‘No change there, then. You know where he’s looking right now? So I can avoid him.’

‘Haven’t got a clue. Just keep your ears open and you’ll be fine.’

McLean wasn’t so sure as he made his way down into the bowels of the station. Those few officers he passed on the way seemed to be giving him a wary look, as if he were bad luck walking. The CID room was almost empty, just one lone figure slumped in a chair with his feet up on the desk. McLean looked around the room with a faint nostalgia. It was only a few months since he’d moved out and into his cubbyhole of an inspector’s office, but he already missed the place.

‘You up for some work this evening, Bob?’ he asked. Detective Sergeant Laird did a good impression of a man waking from a deep sleep, almost falling off his chair in the process.

‘Shit, you gave me a fright there, sir. You seen Dagwood yet?’

‘No, and the longer I can put it off the better. Any idea why he wants to see me?’

‘No, but I can tell you this much. He’s not a happy bunny.’

‘My heart bleeds for him. Did you get the PM report on Audrey Carpenter yet?’

‘Who?’ Grumpy Bob’s face was a mask of confusion.

‘The dead lass we found out at Gladhouse. Audrey Carpenter. Or Violet Audrey MacDougal if you prefer.’

‘I didn’t think we had an ID for her yet. When did this come in?’

McLean slumped against one of the desks. ‘Just after the PM. Jo Dalgliesh made the ID, of all people. I could do without having to be grateful to her.’

‘Does Dagwood know?’